


The Real Questions

by RenaRoo



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Donut gets seriously injured, Red Team pulls together and forces each other to ask some pretty big questions. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Real Questions

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Wow just put me in the shipping trashbin kthnx I blame goodluckdetective

“Those fuckers shot Donut!”

“What again?”

It’s hard to follow up being blown up, being blown “through time”, being landed on by a transport carrier, and being _dead_ with all that much excitement or fanfare, but if there is someone in the cosmos capable of it, it’s probably Franklin Donut.

Red Team reacts accordingly. There is a banter, jokes mostly at Donut’s unconscious expense, but then there’s the draw in.

They close ranks, correspondence with their “allies” on Blue Team drops suddenly, they exchange nervous looks as their fallen brother gets the look over by doctors, they safeguard against check up from a certain medic though they seem begrudgingly grateful that his _one_ successful rescue over the years involved their lightish red friend.

Then they wait.

They wait for things to be better, and they pretend it’s not happening at all.

For the most part.

* * *

Donut being treated by doctors is a positive change of pace, but it doesn’t obscure the fact that they’re left with the chore of waiting on him to get better. Or at least wake up.

Some of them protest this part of the process more than others.

“It’s just inconsiderate.”

Simmons rubs his temples before turning to face his orange clad comrade. “Alright, fine, I bite, Grif. _How_ exactly is Donut being in a medically induced coma _inconsiderate_ to you? Enlighten me.”

Sarge looks comically large in the plastic waiting seat across from them -- arms crossed and scowl firmly unmoving. He seems to be evaluating his soldiers based on their choice in conversation.

It makes Simmons think that it might be one of the few examinations outside of his troop assignment that he’ll fail.

“It’s easy, Simmons,” Grif announces, hands motioning wildly with his words. “It’s one thing to be the major casualty of one conflict. It’s one thing to be the major injury _twice._ Hell, it’s one thing to be the one causing us grief _three times._ But Donut’s track record of making us have to do shit to save his skinny ass is deplorable. It’s an eye sore to our team.”

“You’re only mad because ‘saving Donut’ incorporates you doing something other than sitting in a driver’s seat,” Simmons snaps back. “And most of the time that’s all you’re doing to save Donut anyway. What right do you have to complain about us getting out of the battlefield early anyway? Doing that is all you talk about. Donut’s doing you a favor.”

Grif stares at Simmons for a moment, then looks to their bedridden friend, then back.

“Holy shit,” Grif says. “You’re _right!_ I mean. Simmons. You’re _right?_ How--”

“I’ve listened to you complain so much I am fully acclimated to Grif logic, Grif,” Simmons grouches.

Sarge rapidly rises to his feet, the plastic chair flung out from behind him. Grif and Simmons look to him in surprise.

“As I live and breathe!” Sarge snarls, throwing his hands in the air. “It is one thing for this hospital to expect me to sit here -- without weapons -- and listen to _one_ Grif complaining and eating and backtalking and complaining, but for me to sit here -- without weapons -- and listen to _two? Agreeing?_ I absolutely refuse to stand by idly and not be able to threaten either of you!”

Taken a bit by surprise at being referred to as a _Grif_ , Simmons didn’t have anything prepared, but fortunate Grif was always in supply of snark.

“What’s the matter with your hands, Sarge?” Grif asks. “I thought you used to talk about the pleasure of murdering with your own barehands. Can’t you threaten with those anymore?”

Releasing a string of gutteral noises, Sarge turns and leaves the room in aggravation.

Grif blinks. “What the hell’s _his_ problem?” Grif asks, looking at Simmons directly.

Simmons frowns in response. “I... Well, I think he’s just worried about Donut. Maybe.”

At that, Grif slumps back into his chair, looks at Donut’s resting form.

“What? Really?” he asks. “I mean... what for... Donut’s always dying.”

“Maybe it’s not as easy to get used to,” Simmons says with a shrug.

There’s a strange atmosphere between them as they finally lapse into silence. It’s perhaps the first time since Donut getting shot that they were quiet enough to think privately.

* * *

Hours pass, Grif nods off a few times, but for the most part he and Simmons both are caught up in watching over Donut. Wondering if he should take this long to wake up. Wondering if this sort of fate is just inevitable for Red Team. Wondering what Blue Team could possibly be doing out there.

There is a lot to consider.

Simmons looks to Grif, concentrates on him for a moment. Then, lowly, he says, “Really makes you _think,_ doesn’t it?”

Grif blinks a few times before looking back at him, crosses his arms. “I avoid thinking too much if I don’t have to,” he responds firmly.

“That’s not true and you know it,” Simmons says. “You think about these sorts of things more than most.

“Yeah? I’d like for you to prove it,” Grif snorts.

“Come off it, Grif!” Simmons moans in exasperation. “I’m trying to share a moment with you here. Why are you so dedicated to ruining it?”

“I don’t know, Simmons, why are _you_ so dedicated to _having_ it?”

Simmons snaps back. “I’m just... well, I’m wondering why we’re here.”

At that, Grif stiffens up and simply glares at Simmons as if he is a disgusting waste of human being. “Don’t you dare start. I will _never_ try to have that conversation again.”

“I’m being serious, Grif,” Simmons says, turning in his chair to face Grif directly. “I mean... I’m apparently nowhere near as philosophical as you about it but... when one of our own gets put in a hospital like this --”

“‘One of our own?’“ Grif quotes back skeptically. “Simmons, it’s almost _always_ Donut. You can just point out Donut, I get the gist of it.”

“No, it’s not _always_ Donut, shut up for a second,” Simmons groans. “What I’m saying is, whenever we get needlessly hurt, I just think... well. Why are any of us here doing any of this shit? It’s not for _us_ , and it’s not exactly like we’re _charitable_ people. Why are we _here?_ What are we here _for?”_

Grif looks at him for a moment with that straight face that Simmons can never read before rubbing at his nose roughly. “Well,” he says sardonically, “it _is_ one of life’s great mysteries, isn’t it?”

Simmons sighs and rolls his eyes, beginning to shift back into his chair when he feels a hand cover his own. He looks at Grif.

The orange space marine just pats Simmons’ hand. “We’re here because we’re not doing it for anyone else. We’re doing it for each other,” he continues, as if it’s one of the simplest answers in the world.

He blinks in response. “Really?”

Grif pulls his hand back and shrugs. “Well I’m sure as hell not doing it for Donut.”

“It’s a _little bit_ for Donut,” Simmons says with a roll of his eyes.

“Not a _lot_ for Donut though!”

“Hey, lovebirds!” Sarge shouts from the hall, making both soldiers stiffen and slide away from each other as their leader stomps through the door. “Found Lopez! All’s good now. Now what were you two doing this whole time?”

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he’s met with a _lot_ of clashing hues of Red.

Donut yawns, stretching his movable arm as he does so, only for Simmons and Lopez to immediately grab his arm and put it back by his side on the bed.

“Being over dramatic is _not_ worth popping your stitches, Donut,” Simmons huffs.

“Dramatic effect is worth _any_ casualty!” Donut disagrees, looking to their robotic friend. “Right, Lopez?”

“No hable por mí,” the robot begs.

“That’s the spirit,” Donut yawns.

Sarge shuffles closer, roughly bringing his hand down on Donut’s exposed shoulder and causing a cry of “ _Sarge!”_ from the othersand for Donut to flinch slightly. “How are you feeling, soldier?”

“Like I was shot!” Donut exclaims.

“No kidding,” Grif groans with a roll of his eyes. “Man, what a coincidence, Donut. Guess why _you’re_ in the hospital right now!”

“I also had a dream,” Donut says, bouncing slightly. “You were there, Sarge. And you were like this angry talking head, but really you were behind a door the whole time! And Lopez was there, looking for a mouth because someone took it from you. Oh, man! And Grif and Simmons were here--”

“If you say I was a scarecrow and Grif was a lion, I have to warn you that we _could_ be sued for copyright, Donut,” Simmons says flatly.

“Okay, I won’t,” Donut responds cheerfully. “But you _did_ kiss in the end--”

“That is _not_ going to happen,” Grif snaps. “Stop trying to make it happen. I have a feeling you only get shot to try to ‘Bring Us All Together’ for a happy ending, Donut, and quite frankly I’m sick of it.”

“Stop with the cliches, got it!”


End file.
